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Maybe the truest test of strength is not what you can lift, but rather what you can carry without making someone else pay for it.
In the Christian faith tradition, we understand and refer to Jesus as the Son of God, but we rarely acknowledge that Jesus was also the son of another father—the man who raised him, protected him, and provided for him. His name was Joseph.
What's interesting about Joseph is we know very little about him. Joseph leaves us no sermons, no statements, no letters, no miracles. In fact, Joseph does not have a single recorded word in all of Scripture. He is present, but he is quiet.
Most of us are conditioned to look for the loudest leader in the room—the clearest voice, the strongest opinion, the person with the most visible authority. But Joseph's life forces us to consider a different kind of strength, because to be faithful instead of forceful means that you play a part in the story that no one else sees. You show up instead of showing off.
We first get a glimpse of who Joseph is in the Gospel account of Matthew chapter 1.
Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.
Let's pause here for a minute. Joseph is pledged to be married to Mary. Their future is already in motion, their families know, their community knows, there is a plan—and then Mary is pregnant, and Joseph knows he is not the father.
In the ancient world, in an ethno-religious setting, this is devastating, life-altering news. Mary would have to carry the skepticism of others, but Joseph had something to carry too. If he leaves the woman he loves and is engaged to, he's out of options and exposed. But if he stays, he endures public shame and private ridicule for a story that no one around him is ever going to believe.//
Sometimes we imagine these stories as if everyone in them already knows the future. We read them like Joseph is fully aware that one day there will be a Christmas Eve service, stained glass windows, and little figurines of him standing next to Jesus in a manger in a nativity scene. But he didn't have that.
The text goes on:
And her husband, Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.
Joseph had a pregnant fiancée, a damaged reputation, and a decision to make. Really, the most dignified thing Joseph could do for himself would be to divorce Mary. He's also trying to do what's right by that society's standards, being merciful and discreet for Mary's sake. This says a lot about his character, even with the limited knowledge he had at the time.
There is a hollow version of strength that is only ever interested in being right. It can win the argument. It can prove the point. It can show everyone who failed and who didn't. Although Joseph didn't understand everything yet, he refused to punish someone for his own pain. He passed on the opportunity to shame or blame Mary.
True strength doesn't need to shout someone else's wrongs in order to do what's right.
Maybe you've had a moment like this in your life where you felt misunderstood—where your pride was wounded, when you knew people would talk and no one really knew the whole story. If you think back to yourself in that moment, how did you show up? What rises up naturally within us is the need to control the narrative. But what if moments of public disgrace or perceived weakness were made to develop something deeper within us?
Maybe the truest test of strength is not what you can lift, but rather what you can carry without making someone else pay for it. This happens in our lives, and I'm not going to pretend to have answers for why. But I do know that when we see it happen in the Scriptures, that's exactly the place where God meets us.
But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying,
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Connected by scripture or shared themes.
Maybe the truest test of strength is not what you can lift, but rather what you can carry without making someone else pay for it.
In the Christian faith tradition, we understand and refer to Jesus as the Son of God, but we rarely acknowledge that Jesus was also the son of another father—the man who raised him, protected him, and provided for him. His name was Joseph.
What's interesting about Joseph is we know very little about him. Joseph leaves us no sermons, no statements, no letters, no miracles. In fact, Joseph does not have a single recorded word in all of Scripture. He is present, but he is quiet.
Most of us are conditioned to look for the loudest leader in the room—the clearest voice, the strongest opinion, the person with the most visible authority. But Joseph's life forces us to consider a different kind of strength, because to be faithful instead of forceful means that you play a part in the story that no one else sees. You show up instead of showing off.
We first get a glimpse of who Joseph is in the Gospel account of Matthew chapter 1.
Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.
Let's pause here for a minute. Joseph is pledged to be married to Mary. Their future is already in motion, their families know, their community knows, there is a plan—and then Mary is pregnant, and Joseph knows he is not the father.
In the ancient world, in an ethno-religious setting, this is devastating, life-altering news. Mary would have to carry the skepticism of others, but Joseph had something to carry too. If he leaves the woman he loves and is engaged to, he's out of options and exposed. But if he stays, he endures public shame and private ridicule for a story that no one around him is ever going to believe.//
Sometimes we imagine these stories as if everyone in them already knows the future. We read them like Joseph is fully aware that one day there will be a Christmas Eve service, stained glass windows, and little figurines of him standing next to Jesus in a manger in a nativity scene. But he didn't have that.
The text goes on:
And her husband, Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.
Joseph had a pregnant fiancée, a damaged reputation, and a decision to make. Really, the most dignified thing Joseph could do for himself would be to divorce Mary. He's also trying to do what's right by that society's standards, being merciful and discreet for Mary's sake. This says a lot about his character, even with the limited knowledge he had at the time.
There is a hollow version of strength that is only ever interested in being right. It can win the argument. It can prove the point. It can show everyone who failed and who didn't. Although Joseph didn't understand everything yet, he refused to punish someone for his own pain. He passed on the opportunity to shame or blame Mary.
True strength doesn't need to shout someone else's wrongs in order to do what's right.
Maybe you've had a moment like this in your life where you felt misunderstood—where your pride was wounded, when you knew people would talk and no one really knew the whole story. If you think back to yourself in that moment, how did you show up? What rises up naturally within us is the need to control the narrative. But what if moments of public disgrace or perceived weakness were made to develop something deeper within us?
Maybe the truest test of strength is not what you can lift, but rather what you can carry without making someone else pay for it. This happens in our lives, and I'm not going to pretend to have answers for why. But I do know that when we see it happen in the Scriptures, that's exactly the place where God meets us.
But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying,
Continue exploring
Connected by scripture or shared themes.
